


exeunt

by chirospasms



Category: Twisted-Wonderland (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, maybe a bit shippy if you squint and turn your head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:48:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29196348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chirospasms/pseuds/chirospasms
Summary: Vil really doesn't have time for this. Malleus has all the time in the world.aka 1k+ words just to make fun of Malleus for not knowing how to use a phone
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	exeunt

**Author's Note:**

> I've got a plan in mind for an actual, romance oriented fic for these two, but right now I am just fiddling around with how it feels to write in this fandom. Something I got out at 5am and didn't read over to edit is not exactly what I had in mind for christening this account with, but, here we are

Like most things in his life, Vil’s sleep schedule is strict. It would reflect poorly on the rest of his health, and perhaps more importantly, his beauty, if it weren’t. Early to bed, early to rise, kept a man from having dark circles under his eyes. 

Even he isn’t immune to losing track of time, though, no matter how he may try to work his body’s cycles into clockwork-like function. It’s the light in the library suddenly dimming and then completely going out that has him realizing he’s been scribbling progressively wobblier, scratchier notes for far too long and ought to pack up his things and return his books to the shelves lest he keep sitting here straining his eyes in the dark when even the fairies that keep the outdated lamps lit have gone off to bed and Crowley’s generosity with the electricity has run out for the evening. 

At the expense of his beauty sleep, he’s got solid material to go off of for an upcoming presentation on the dangers of not being mindful of how astrology and picking ingredients and timing for potion making go hand-in-hand. Now, he’s more worried about whether he should compound his usual nightly skincare routine into something shorter to compensate for his lost sleep than he is about the best time to cut elder flowers. 

Of course he’ll keep his skincare routine in order, he thinks as he casts a simple spell for a warm glow of light so that he can see better as he packs his notes. Dark circles could be covered and remedied in an instant, but one night of unthorough moisturizing could give him problems for weeks. 

He doesn’t like to look at it beyond a certain time because the blue light will strain his eyes and cause a wrinkle between his brows, but he checks his phone for the time after he’s returned his books, humming thoughtfully to himself over the idea that, if he’s quick enough getting out of here, the sleep loss might even seem negligible upon waking. 

Admittedly, he’s not being as efficient with his time as his thoughts would imply. Having the phone in his hand makes it all too easy to start thumbing through recent notes on his latest posts and images. 

The self absorption does its job so well that he only notices that all the light he’s putting off has drawn metaphorical moths to his flame when Malleus is right in front of him, tall and impossible to miss even in black garb and with no light source of his own.

“Oh, Malleus. You’d have given anyone else a heart attack,” Vil says by way of greeting, tone chiding as he pockets his phone. 

He’s a third year with standing, he’s not about to be cowed into the same feelings of the sorts who give Malleus a wide breadth of room to move. But it is still strangely embarrassing to be caught with his phone in hand around the other. There’s always a certain something in the Diasomnia head’s gaze around these sorts of things that makes a phone seem like a useless trinket.

Malleus doesn’t speak, not a greeting nor an apology. He only stands there, stiff despite the contrasting, inky flow of his robes—it occurs to Vil that he’s still in uniform while Malleus is not; that Malleus must have willingly come to this darkened library of his own accord rather than being inside when the lights had gone off—and stares down his straight, proud nose at Vil. His height really is an enviable thing. It might be imposing now if it weren’t for the fact that, rather than the silence being unsettling, it’s a bit awkward. 

Vil knows how to navigate social situations. This one has him stumped, or at the very least, feebly treading water. 

He makes a polite, excusing little noise in his throat as he steps to the side, trying and failing to pay no mind to how Malleus’s gaze follows him. 

“Well. Good evening,” is what he _starts_ to say, but Malleus beats him in speaking.

“I didn’t vote.”

“You..?”

It takes a moment to figure out what he means, because Malleus doesn’t clarify.

“Oh. The VDC.” 

That had been _weeks_ ago. It was an occasion he was all too happy to forget about, considering. He was already, more or less, over it, but only because he’d compartmentalized and used all the time he could have spent agonizing over the loss, his outburst, the— _everything_ —on being productive instead. Improving upon himself. Making connections and deals with all the right people so as to have work enough to do and pictures enough to post to turn that moment into nothing more than a memory. 

“Well, that’s all right. There’s no sense in me getting upset over which vote may have been the one to tip it out of my favor, if it was ever in it to begin with. And anyway, I’d rather others vote with their h—”

Malleus doesn’t step into his space, but he’s got the sort of large presence in a room that makes Vil feel like he’s being encroached upon when the other shifts to face him better.

“No. I meant, I didn’t vote at all.”

“Okay.” It takes everything to school the word into a statement and not a confused question. “I guess I couldn’t expect somebody like you to feel particularly moved by either performance. Not voting is fine, too, it’s its own statement, I suppose?”

A statement he kind of wishes Malleus wasn’t bothering him with. He should have been well on his way back to his dorm room by now, but instead he’s here, watching Malleus’s expression shift in a way that tells him this conversation still isn’t over, somehow.

“I couldn’t figure out how.”

“How… To vote?”

“Yes.”

Vil makes a noise that is very _not_ beautiful, bringing his hand to his mouth even after he’s completely cut the sound off. He doesn’t mean to laugh, but Malleus is so straightforward about it, and only moments after Vil had been thinking that he seemed to regard phones with disdain. 

“Uhm. I’m sorry to hear that.” He pauses, dropping his hand and looking toward the door. He doesn’t want to be rude, but he really does want to go. “Well… It wouldn’t have mattered much either way, hm? One vote behind or two, a loss is a loss. Now, good evening.”

He smiles and inclines his head in a faint farewell, adjusting his grip on his things and finally stepping past Malleus, towards the exit.

“Why have you twice now assumed where my vote would have gone? It could have been a tie.”

Malleus's voice, which had been so low and soft up close, seems deafening now even though Vil knows it's barely raised at all in order to call out to him in the silence. His grip almost slackens enough to drop his notes right in the doorway. He stops to adjust it yet again, biting the inside of his cheek. 

“Could it have been? Would you have... Voted for me?” 

For us, he means to say, because it had been a group effort. His mind is elsewhere, though. The seconds tick on.

Vil turns, just enough to look back into the library at Malleus for a reply.

  
  


It’s dark, and quiet, and Malleus is nowhere to be found.


End file.
